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Sex Trumps Dignity Every Time

Natasha Cabot

    Being drunk at 2:30 in the morning and with few options for sexual release, Tom went home with one of the leftover barflies who often inhabit urban drinking centres. This barfly was named Nancy and she weighed 355 pounds. The whiskey made him overlook the numerous rolls of flesh but cumming sobered him up enough to notice. He jumped out of bed after the last drop of sperm left his penis and he pulled on his pants.
    Shame sat in a chair in the corner looking at him, shaking its head. Are we finally done? Can we go now? You really are an asshole. You convinced her you thought she was hot. Liar. Bastard.
    “Shut up,” he said, pulling on his shirt.
    “What?” The obese barfly asked.
    “Not you. Sorry. My brain doesn’t work too well after I cum. I was just mumbling to myself.”
    That’s right. Tell her another lie. You’re such a fucking prince.
    Tom stared at Shame. It stared back at him with a sour expression and disdain in its eyes.
    “I gotta go,” Tom said. “Have to get to work in the morning.”
    Oh! Another lie!
    “But tomorrow is Saturday. No one works on Saturdays. Sleep here,” Nancy said.
    He stared at her, her large frame consuming the queen-sized bed. No! screamed his brain.
    “Nah, big project coming up,” he said.
    You’re good. There’s no project. You know it and I know it and I just bet that deep down inside, she knows it. Oh, she won’t admit she knows but she does.
    Tom picked his coat up off of the floor. “Thanks, Nancy. I’ll call you later. I promise.”
    She smiled at him but it wasn’t a real smile. It was the kind of smile a person smiles when they really want to cry. And after he walked out the door, she would cry but she didn’t want to do it in front of him. It might scare him off.
    “Tomorrow?”
    “Yeah, maybe. If I get home early enough. Bye,” he said, sprinting out of the house.
    He walked out into freedom and Shame was with him. It was always with him – an ever-clinging barnacle of guilt that would never let go.
    I hope you feel good. You know she’s back there crying. You saw her eyes filling up with tears. I don’t know why you pick up cows only to fuck them. Such a dick move. They have feelings, Tom. I mean, can’t you just masturbate and not fuck someone you’d be ashamed of being seen with in public?
    “Shut up,” Tom said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
    It isn’t her fault you can’t find a woman you’re not embarrassed by. So she’s a little fat. Big deal. She likes you. The thin women don’t. Face it, you’re no prize. You’ve got pockmarks on your face and you’re broke more often than not. Who are you to judge?
    “I said shut up.”
    No. I won’t. You apparently have no pride. And you certainly have no respect for her. You couldn’t even look at yourself in the mirror back there.
    “Stop trying to make me feel guilty. It isn’t going to work. Leave me alone. You’re always talking and talking and talking.”
    Of course it won’t. You’re an asshole. And I’m not going anywhere. I’m an asshole, too.
    The wind, hearing the argument, slapped Tom in the face. Dick! The wind was a feminist, an elemental Boudica, and hated mistreatment of all females. She sought revenge for Nancy, and all the other females who had been hurt by drunken, horny men. She hoped a small speck of dust or sand would lodge itself into Tom’s cornea and scratch it, making him very uncomfortable for a few hours or, if she was lucky, a few days. Maybe he’d get an eye infection! Whoosh! Whoosh! Boudica screamed.
    He ignored the wind and the Shame and stayed inside his own head. He could still smell her on him as he walked home. The wind, sensing this, flew up the legs of his jeans and forced Nancy’s aroma out of the waist band. Her scent drifted up into his nose and danced inside his nostrils. I need a shower. The shower is my priest and will absolve me of all sin. I’ll be clean again.
    He arrived home, opened the door and slammed it in the wind’s face. Shame managed to slip in behind him and followed him to the bathroom and sat on the toilet.
    You really think this will make everything all right? It won’t. You know what happened. No shower will erase the memory of having sex with a fat chick you despise. Nothing will change that. The shower can be as hot as hell and it won’t erase the memory of what just happened. We both know this.
    Tom undressed and stepped into the shower. The sound of the water and his own humming blocked out Shame. He wanted to stay in the shower forever so he wouldn’t have to face Shame. Shame never shut up. Its vocal chords never tired out and it always had an opinion.
    He lathered himself from head to toe and rinsed off. Her smell went down the drain and into the sewers below. The rats would be happy. They loved the aroma of dank fish. He was clean again and Shame had left the room. He shut off the shower and grabbed a towel.
    He walked from the bathroom into the bedroom. Shame was sprawled out on the bed, nude and ready for sleep.
    She texted you. She wants to know if you got home okay and wanted to remind you to call her tomorrow. Are you going to reply?
    “No. I’m going to bed. I’m tired. Now, move over.”
    Tom slipped into bed and shut out the light. Shame rolled over on its side and propped its head on its arm, staring down at him.
    You really aren’t going to answer? You’re such an asshole!
    Outside, the wind hit hard against the window. The pane shuttered and shook in fury. Shame kept talking in Tom’s ear. There would be no sleep for him that night. There would be only an angry element, chattering Shame, a skull full of cotton, and the memory of his penis entering and exiting the hole of a large woman. Despite everything, at least he got laid.



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